


Fic Snippet: Something Else Entirely

by ffoulkes_no



Category: Invaders (Marvel)
Genre: AU, Body Horror, Fic Snippets, Gen, frankenstein-esque AU, implications of self-harm, short-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 13:51:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5130032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffoulkes_no/pseuds/ffoulkes_no
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A part of him thinks there’s something wrong, that he should shiver, that his feet and hands should feel numb from the rain. Yet, every inch of him burns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fic Snippet: Something Else Entirely

**Author's Note:**

> Part of an AU I poked around at, but that never got off the ground. What if Professor Horton had decided to go less Popular Mechanics, and more Doctor Frankenstein?
> 
> Also location-swapping, because it's fun.

It’s raining. Streams of water pour down the flat roads, overwhelming the gutters unused to the torrent. The streets are all-but deserted. Angelinos don’t do well in the wet.  


That’s for the best. It’s better if he isn’t seen.

He runs across the street, giving the faded glow of the streetlamps a wide berth. The timing is wrong; a Yellow Car, sparking evilly in the dark and sending up spray higher than a man, makes a sharp right around a corner. For a terrible moment, he’s caught in its headlight. He can see the flash of horror in the conductor’s eyes, the second of recognition tinged with fear, but he’s already running again, slip-sliding through a shin-deep puddle before leaping headlong into the dark safety between two buildings. The railcar rumbles by.

He lay his head down on the wet pavement, letting his breath bubble in the shallow water, and closes his eyes. If only he could sleep. What terrible god would make a creature that couldn’t sleep, no matter how tired, how exhausted. 

_But it wasn’t a god, was it? Only a man. A flawed, greedy, wretched man—_

He pulls himself up. If his clothes hadn’t been soaked through, they certainly are now. Not that he feels the cold. A part of him— an old, hazy part, that remembers nights that froze even through new boots (that never fit right, but they were at least new) and two pairs of socks, more than the other men had —thinks there’s something wrong, that he should shiver, that his feet and hands should feel numb from the rain. Yet, every inch of him burns. It’s hotter than a valley summer, thick and suffocating, and the wetness of his clothing only adds to the feeling. He leans against the brick wall of the alley, taking in great gulps of air that don't sate his lungs. With a sudden ferocity, he rips off his coat and flings it to the wet ground. Then the ill-fitting shirt. The undershirt is partway off, side-seams ripping, when he stops. 

His arms gleam even in the dark. Wires run straight into the flesh, connecting bits of excised muscle to a thin, metal piston sunk into the skin on each forearm. The rest of his exposed skin is a mess of scars, some red and fresh-looking, others pale and old. Here or there, a bit of shining, silver metal peeks through where the flesh has worn away like old leather. When the water hits metal, it instantly vaporizes into steam.

He’s seen it all before. Some of the scars, he knows, are from his own nails.

He scoops up the sopping wet shirt from the ground and wrings it out as best he can before worming his arms through. It’s too short for him, and, even damp, the sleeves don’t reach his wrists. If it had been made for him, once, it no longer fits. He then tugs on the coat, shifting uncomfortably as the pressing heat builds again. But at least he's covered. He thinks about the railcar conductor, about the look on his face, and frowns – no, that hadn’t been nearly as bad as having to look at it, himself, even for a minute more.

The rain is no longer coming down in sheets. It’s slowing in increments, the heavier rainfall coughing and sputtering before giving way, unwillingly, to a light patter. It’s not late. An entire city unused to being kept indoors won’t stay inside for just a sprinkle.

The beacon at the center of Downtown reflects off the clouds, making them glow. For most people in the city, it’s a comforting sight – a signal in the dark, calling them in. He stares for a moment, unmoving except for shallow, unsteady breaths. Then he turns his back on the light, and makes his way _out_.


End file.
